


Man Cannot Live On Bread Alone

by CalamityCain



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Human, Carrying, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Finger Sucking, Food Kink, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Shower Sex, Spanking, Stuffing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the cramped quarters of wall-to-wall tenement apartments, one thing leads to another: an open window, a voyeur’s gaze, sliced onions, a kitchen fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Heat

**Author's Note:**

> The opening of this tale, as well as the title, is inspired by the music video for ‘La Tortura’ by Shakira & Alejandro Sanz.
> 
> Translation of lyric excerpt:
> 
>  _Man cannot live on bread alone_  
>  Nor can I live on excuses  
> We only learn from our mistakes  
> And I learnt today that my heart is yours

*   *   *

Sunday.

A sultry afternoon, the kind that leaves sticky trails up your arms and back. The day is quiet; still.

The apartments in this part of town are of the kind built as cheaply as possible. They are then sold cheaply to down-and-outers like myself — as well as more decent folk who have come upon hard times and rent their circumstances as an interim state of being. 

They are the fortunate ones. For me, these drab walls are a reality that stretches on indefinitely. And most people seem to know it. They take one look at my dirty-blond stubble, my rough hands, the way I (unconsciously) walk into a room as if looking for a fight, and that is all it takes to label me.

I don’t blame them. Much.

These cramped apartments are built closely within the small block we occupy; close enough that I can memorize the teeth-brushing habits and mealtimes of the people living opposite unless they keep their curtains drawn. Not that their lives interest me much — they are too much like mine. There is really only one neighbour I have come to care for.

I open the window to let out the building heat. And that’s when I see him. Or rather, I see the pale little finger slipping between his lips, bitten lightly by pearly teeth, by a mouth that looks indescribably pink.

He is wearing a grey wool top that looks far too thick for this weather. He takes it off. Beneath is a very worn tank top of a lighter grey that seems to lap up the sinuous body it clings to.

I imagine the thin fabric to be my skin. My tongue. When he pushes the mass of black hair aside — smooth waves stirred into tangles from the humidity — I want to lick the stretch of white neck. Surely he is not doing this on purpose. How alluring can someone be coming back from a trip to the store, arms full of baguette and butter and garlic? Yet alluring he is. There is something in the way he moves that is raw and electric and wild. The shape of his jaw line, his nose, say “I am above you.” The lips that seem always on the edge of sneering even when they laugh, say “I do not belong here. Look at my uncommon beauty all you want; tomorrow I will be gone.” 

So I look on openly, unashamedly, when we pass each other in the corridor. (And tomorrow he is still here; and the next day, and the next.)

My too-bold gaze brings a light flush to his cheeks whenever he notices. But he has yet to say a word to me since he moved in. Is this the way polite folk are raised — to stew in haughty silence, to keep their raised voices behind closed doors?

He means to unnerve me with such a stare. Yet he doesn’t know that his sliver of a smile – a rare flash of wicked white – is much more unnerving.

He doesn’t realise this (or does he?), but it’s a smile that says _Do bad things to me._

The brown paper bag spills an assortment of groceries onto his kitchen counter. Like a true bachelor he does not bother sorting them into neat compartments, but simply grabs an onion and gives it a rough rinse before slicing in. Maybe he’s hungry and cannot wait to start cooking.

I am hungry myself, but unlike my fastidious neighbour I am seldom bothered to do more cooking than five minutes in the microwave. I tear a bite out of my peanut butter sandwich as the show goes on.

There is a simmering pot on the stove. The heat rising from the water forms a sheen on his forehead. I imagine sweat pooling delicately in his clavicle. As he slices away, silvery streaks stain his cheeks. The onions are making him cry; but it could just as well be an ex-lover. He wipes his face. There is a hint of red about the eyes, as if he is genuinely distressed. Onion fumes or not, he seems terribly vulnerable all of a sudden – and terribly, hopelessly attractive.

A restless urge arises. My palms grow hot where they’re pressed against the windowsill. There is something wrong with the fact that I am here, and not in the opposite apartment holding him until the redness fades away.

More chopping, dicing, wiping. More tears.

It is those tears that break me: the wet silver streaks that make his eyes look like broken glass. I abandon my lunch and grab my keys as I decide to pay a long-due neighbourly visit.

 

 


	2. Simmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer thingy:  
> This part contains behaviour that crosses into sexual assault/abusive territory that I don't in any way condone, except within the realm of kink-fic. Enjoy!

 

*   *   *

He takes an age to answer when I ring the bell. The itch has built up within from an eternity ago and pools in my belly, my chest, my dry throat.

When he finally opens the door, I all but attack him.

The humid day has caused him to pull up his tank top, so that half his midriff is exposed. I shove the fabric further up his torso. I lick those rosy, inviting nipples.

At the touch of my tongue he cries out. Yet he remains strangely paralysed in my arms. The scene resembles nothing so much as rape, plain and glaring. Rape, with the face of a friendly neighbour, in broad daylight. Yet he does not cry out or struggle or exhibit signs that I have exceeded all boundaries of decency.

So I push on. That is, I push my mouth against his in a kiss that is as far from movie kisses as it can get – rough, graceless, sloppy, tongue all over the place when I try to fit it between his lips. 

It seems forever before he shoves me away. He spits angry phrases at me. 

“ _Boor._ You pathetic…you brainless _thug._ What do you think you’re doing?”

“I…I did not think. That was the problem.”

We stand there for an age, mere feet apart when he should be running away screaming murder and rape. But not once does he shame me like I deserve. 

Instead he seems fearful, tense. Yet it’s not fear that makes his chest rise and fall urgently or his mouth hang open like that, the tongue inside deep red and inviting. 

I take a step closer. He does not move. Two steps, three. Still he stands rooted to the ground and the wall as if his palms have grown roots that dig into the raw brick. 

I close the last of the distance. He is trapped. He is mine.

Then I am scooping him into my arms like a rag doll (he is surprisingly heavy) and carrying him into the kitchen. He makes the smallest sound of protest before falling silent. His head falls on my chest for a moment and I inhale the sweet, sweat-tinged scent of his hair.

I place him on the counter where a few groceries are still scattered. There is a good smell rising from the pot; evidently he has thrown in most of the ingredients. I may well be ruining his recipe; I couldn’t care less. Neither, apparently, does he.

Languid from the heat, seemingly mesmerized by my hands, he lets me remove his jeans. His bare feet brush my thighs seductively. His tongue laps hungrily at mine whenever our lips touch. I rub a thumb against the bulge in his briefs, and he moans long and low against my neck. There is a deafening clatter as utensils hit the floor. With a careless sweep of his arm he has cleared the counter surface so we may do a different kind of cooking.

My actions so far have made it clear that I’m courting danger. But I’m not that far gone. As one hand slides between his thighs, the other reaches to turn off the stove. Something cool touches my arm – a block of melting butter. 

I unwrap part of it, rub off some of it and use it to slick up his entrance. He moans, higher this time, and arches into my thrusting fingers.

It would seem we’ve both been waiting for this our whole lives. A summer of desire, heightened by the unbearable stillness of a windless day and the smell of our lust, heavy in the afternoon air. 

As I remove his briefs, I realise I’m still fully dressed. My t-shirt comes off; then my belt. But my pants stay on. I want to be clothed while I fuck him. I don’t know why this turns me on; it needs no explanation. He is hungry for me in any form now, his body curving upwards, at once giving and demanding.

“Put your fingers in me again,” he says. I do so. “No…like before. Move them like you did – _move,_ dammit.” 

“You’re a pushy little thing, aren’t you?”

“Mmh. Do it. Fuck me, what are you waiting f – ”

I smack him, lightly, on his left backside. He retaliates by kicking me, very nearly smashing into my crotch. I bark something in response, jerking back, and then – without meaning to at all – I slap him square across the face.

The unintended force of my blow brings tears to his eyes. The involuntary kind you can’t help anymore than a sneeze. As he stares at me with a stunned look in his blown-glass eyes, I can’t help myself. I slap him again.

And again. And again.

With each smack he lets out a small, short gasp: a tantalizing sound, wet around the edges. He should lash back out at me, or at least remove himself from the swing of my hand, but he doesn’t. Instead he once again proves to be a contrary creature by remaining on his back, propped up on his elbows, cheeks burning red as he glares at me with eyes that gleam with tears. All I can do is stand there like a buffoon, a brute. 

“Well,” he says raggedly, “Are you going to fuck me or not?”

 

 


	3. Fill

*   *   *

I grab the sly tangle of his limbs, feeling the fight course through their sinews, and flip him onto his belly. “Lie still.” My hands are slathered with the butter now, and I work it into his skin, parting his thighs, rubbing it into the warm, tight crevice between. Nearby lies also some fancy French cream – something _fraiche_ , says the label. 

He continues to struggle. He doesn’t stop until I push two fingers, coated with the thick white cream, between his lips. Within seconds his grunts become a soft satisfied “mmmh.” He sucks on my fingers like a baby on a teat. It is a sensation that makes my cock spring to attention – almost comically, like a wooden wind-up toy.

I rub some of the butter and cream onto it and proceed to push it, inch by inch, inside him.

But he is impatient; even with his jaw held firmly and my fingers fucking his mouth steadily, he manages to murmur garbled commands as he thrusts backward in an effort to take in more of my cock. How hungry he is. An utterly strange, wild, wanton creature.

“Be quiet and suck,” I say quietly and firmly. Miraculously, he obeys.

I realise now he needs to be taken in hand; to be tamed, disciplined. The type who responds to commands issued with quiet authority.

More cream _fraiche_ goes in. The lips around my fingers do their work without complaint. I’m not sure if he likes the taste of the cream or my flesh; perhaps both.  Perhaps he has a deep and insatiable hunger that has begged to be fed for years. His body is tense beneath me, though, and I have some difficulty thrusting in properly when the sinewy muscles are a coiling mess. I need to soften him. Perhaps a few good smacks will do the job.

My palm lands on his backside. He inhales sharply. With each few spanks he grows a little more pliant. For a while the warm breezeless air is filled only with the _thwack_ of my hand on his pert rump.

“Now,” I say after his flesh is pink with punishment, “will you do what you’re told instead of thrusting your arse in the air like a common slut?”

I remove my fingers so he can speak. “Yes.” A single wet gasp.

“Good. Now spread your legs – just a little, like that, yes.” I push his knees beneath him so his arse is raised at a graceful angle and his hole presented to me like a perfect split cherry. “Hands behind your back.”

This earns the start of a protest, but I‘ve learnt my lesson. Another firm spank stills his tongue. He obeys the order.

I position myself, pin his wrists firmly, and start pumping into him. The butter is deliciously, perfectly slick and makes a sweet obscene sound as I thrust in and out, setting a rhythm that he picks up in no time. I feed him more cream. After awhile he begins to feel full; it is a rich substance, no doubt. And there is a big jar of it.

“Enough,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Relentlessly I push past his lips with more. “Less talking. More swallowing.” I shove in a whole tablespoonful. “Take it all in.” I want to fill him to the brim, from both ends. I want him to overflow and to spill into my hands like the pliant, warm creature I’ve successfully coaxed out of the previous cold, white hard shell.

“But – ”

More cream. “Swallow it.” He sobs, and obeys.

I am seconds now from climaxing. I want to feel that burst of seed gushing into him, ensuring he is full of all my cock can give, full of _me._ And so does he. The pale firm buttocks are undulating beneath me with no signs of stopping.

A cry is ripped from my throat. I come hard – there is a whiteness that fills my head, and only when it clears do I hear his delicious wet panting around my saliva-slicked fingers. He is saying something. I slide them out.

“What is it?”

There is hesitation. Shame, almost. Then, in a small voice: “Take care of me." 

He writhes a little and I’m directed to his still-swollen cock, looking very unlike my own flaccid sated one. I’m tempted to deny him. But he has been so good. So I take him in hand and bring him to release. He cries my name upon climaxing. My name, raw and sweet and given new dimensions as it pours from his tongue and teeth.

I had not realised he knew my name (though I knew his). We had never really spoken.

The tiled surface of the counter is slick now with both our fluids. I swipe some and slide it into his wet gaping mouth in place of the French cream.

“Suck,” I tell him.

With some difficulty he takes in the come, rolling it around his cat-like tongue and trying to swallow without retching.  
  
“Don’t you like the taste of it – of us?”

“I-I do. It’s just…” He swallows a desperate belch. I smile at how charming his little shiver is. “I’m just so goddamn _full.”_  

I kiss his naked, sweat-chilled back. “As well you should be. You’re so well stuffed…like a Christmas turkey.” He scowls, and I laugh.

Exhausted as I am, I’m also hungry. He must be, too. I turn my attention to the neglected soup on the stove. With a flick the fire is back on. I glance at the ingredients that are still scattered where our lovemaking did not intrude, and guess more or less what he had in mind. 

“Here.” I unfold and reposition him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tucking another beneath his knees. “Allow me.” His body is completely devoid of resistance. I realise how perfectly it folds into mine, and a protective instinct overwhelms me – so much it’s dizzying. I inhale the scent of his hair the way I did when I first carried him.

His quarters are as small as mine,  though more tastefully adorned. I bring him to the living room and place him on the couch. There is a throw blanket on it that I cover him with. “I’ll take over the cooking that I so rudely interrupted. Least I can do, right?”

In response, he chuckles – a warm, velvety sound. “How often does a stranger break into your home, fuck you thoroughly and then cook you lunch?”

“Quite often I should guess, seeing how well you took it.”

_“Hmphh.”_

I wipe the traces of cream off his mouth. A contented sigh escapes it. He is falling asleep.

The rest of the day is filled with the aroma of onion bisque and dining in various states of undress and stolen kisses marked by a laugh and the clatter of a spoon. I delight in feeding him outside of sex as well. Not that he makes it any less erotic, the way he licks the butter knife or emits unnecessary sounds of pleasure when biting into a chunk of soup-soaked baguette. 

“Stop eating like a tramp. You’re only allowed to be that hungry for my cock.” 

“I am always hungry for cock. What makes you think yours is exclusive? – _ahhh!”_ His retort turns into a sharp cry as I slide a greasy finger inside him. I feel the ring of muscle clenching around me.

“Tease me again,” I say in between a tongue-heavy kiss, “and I’ll force the rest of this lunch down that rude mouth. And then I’ll shove my dick into your mouth so that you’re truly filled to bursting.”

“Ohh,” he breathes against my neck, “why not just skip to the second part?”

“You truly _are_ an eager little slut, aren’t you?”

With a hand on the back of his neck, I guide him to his knees. The tip of my penis, freed from my boxers, brushes his lower lip and moistens it with a bead of pre-come. His own sex is flushed and wanting. I can’t believe how easily stimulated we both are.

“From now on,” I tell him, “you’ll ache for the taste of no one else.”

He is ill-equipped to reply after that. But silence, as they say, is consent.

 

~


	4. Soak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a 'bonus chapter' due to various requests. but now there is PLOT HAPPENING and i did not intend for that. O:

 

Running water, gushing hot and strong, is a true luxury of the modern world. Even a dweller of cramped quarters in a shabby neighbourhood may still come home to the safe, soothing cocoon of a warm shower.

But there’s not much that’s soothing about our situation now – breath that comes in spurts, hands wandering so urgently you’d think our flesh was fading and we must consume each other before we’re reduced to ghosts.

The grease and stains of our lovemaking is washed away. But it will take a while yet to get us clean.

He’s on his knees and hands, his open mouth red and wet against my thigh. I thrust my cock into it several more times before pulling out. Reaching for the soap, I make myself thoroughly slick, working up a lather, while with another hand I guide him to turn around and part his legs. With the blindfold on he seems extra dependent on such guidance.

 

*

 

The shower had not seemed at first a likely occurrence – at least not while I was there. When I had tried to pull him into the bathroom, he had fought me the way he should have fought when I first accosted him.

“Come now, we’re both sticky and filthy. You stink of onion.”

“You bastard.” His shift in mood was strange, and it made me bristle. I tried to cajole him; he pushed me away, nails leaving faint pink marks on my arms. Without meaning to my hand reached for his neck. His widened in fear, as if thinking I would strangle him. Of course I wouldn’t. But the way he shrunk back, like a small wild animal, aroused me. I grabbed his chin and pressed my lips against his.

Then we were kissing, our tongues rolling hard against each other, our lips bruised in the battle. He had wrapped his legs around me – drawn me in.

That was when I spotted the stray black handkerchief half-hanging from the laundry bin. I wound it around his blazing eyes, like putting out a fire. Almost immediately a change seeped through him. His movements slowed, he became pliant, relaxing slightly into my grip. Perhaps it was simply disorientation: his head lolled backward before falling onto my chest. It was a pleasant weight. And I had been lying; he did not stink that badly. In fact I was growing to love the smell of his sweaty, messy hair.

His panting slowed to even breaths. He objected with only the barest of murmurs as I undressed him and led him into the small bathroom.

It would have been wonderful to lay him in a great sprawling bathtub. I had to settle for the cold tile floor, murmuring an apology as I kissed his head. He shivered, but remained there until the warm water began to flow over him, undoing him until the tension melted away and he was soft, and wet, and ready.

 

*

 

“Are you ready for me?”

“Yes,” he breathes. Palms pressed against the floor. Legs spread like an invitation. Deprived of sight so that his other senses are sharpened. Every pin-prick of water, every stroke of my hand, is heightened. Never has there been a more perfect sight.

I rub some of the soap between his cheeks, and then slide in.

He takes the first inch with the sharp, sweet sound I’d been waiting for. Before long he is driving backward into me, spearing himself on my cock. “Be still,” I say with a smack to his backside. He protests, but stays in place as I fuck him in long steady thrusts.

He feels so incredibly tight that I start to worry. “You were unprepared. Did I hurt you?”

“No. No, go on…mmmm….mmhhh. Nnngghh. Ahh – ahhh- ahhhh – ”

The last gasp emerges as I pull a fistful of his hair, only hard enough that he would like it. Each time I pushed the boundaries a little, I'm surprised at how much he responded. How he positively blossomed.

The soap is a nice lubricant, but it makes us slippery and graceless, and I can’t help but laugh when I stumble halfway through a thrust. The snicker that spills from his lips is heavenly. I catch the last of it in a kiss. Then I continue where I broke off, fucking him as slowly as I can, ignoring his urges for me to go harder. It torments me but the reward is an orgasm that nearly makes me black out. I come into him messily, my fluids mingling with the lather.

“Turn over,” I gasp. “On your back.”

He does, so, his own erection still unsatisfied and bobbing red against a pale belly. I mean to pleasure him the way he has done for me twice today. Taking his cock into my hand, I wrap my lips around its base.

A long deep sound is pulled from his throat and he arches cat-like into my face. I grip his hips and proceed to work my mouth up and down, up, down. My tongue is not quite as deft as his, but from his reactions he’s hardly judging me. Harsh cries and nails that dig into my shoulders drive me on. I suck away until that hot salty nectar gushes out and swallow all of it.

We collapse beneath the running water and let it wash us clean. His head feels perfect in the dip of my shoulder. I turn the water off and peel the sodden blindfold off to reveal eyes like freshly blown glass. He looks at me in a daze, mouth parted slightly. His lower lip is so pink, I cannot resist.

Lashes flutter against my cheeks as I kiss him. Then the lashes grow hot. His lips falter. He is crying.

“What is it, Loki?”

He shakes his head. Yet the tears are unmistakable for shower droplets; there is a definite redness building beneath his eyes. It only grows stronger the more he shakes his head and pulls away.

I pull him back in and hold him close. What disturbs me is the lack of overt sobbing, or of anger at having been caught. There is only a slight unevenness in his breathing, the subtle up-and-down of his chest and shoulders. And a continuous stream of tears that, once having escaped the dam, have to run their course. After awhile the tension goes and he leans boneless into my chest. I rub his back in slow circles. I don’t know what else to do.

What a contradictory creature he is. Full of spark and sharp edges, and then suddenly warm and pliant. And now, a strange broken doll that I want to pick up, and mend, but I don’t know where to start. Because I don’t know where the damage is.

“Is this…about someone else? Did someone hurt you?” I ask at last, clumsily.

The sobs had slowed down but now they come anew. His crumpled face only confirms my suspicion. And it worries me, because I can’t help wondering if his liking for rough treatment – for my various assaults on his being – stem from natural preferences, or if he had learnt such things from another partner. Been conditioned to such.

It makes me vaguely sick in the stomach.

I tilt his chin, gently, as if trying to make up for all my earlier aggressions.

“Who did this to you?”

He draws a shuddering breath. “I. I…”

I never hear the answer leave his lips. There is a rattle outside, the opening of a lock. His head jerks up – his face is pale and alert. Apparently, he does not live alone.

Someone is home.


	5. Devour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (and the mystery boyfriend remains a mystery. soon to be revealed, in the next chapter probably. i'm really sorry but to be honest i'm MAKING IT UP AS I GO ALONG. whoops)

 

“Stay here.” The urgent hiss, the set of his jaw, indicates I must not argue with him on this. He throws on a towel and exits the bathroom.

 

Someone greets him. It’s a fairly mild-mannered, affectionate voice. “Well aren’t you a sight. I wasn’t prepared for third base, but if you insist…”

 

Loki laughs. “I’ve just finished bathing. And you’d filthy me up all over again?”

 

I lean my ear to the door, letting it open just a crack. “You bet I would.” A kiss is exchanged. “Is dinner ready?”

 

“I…” Loki falters. “Not quite yet.”

  
  
“I told you I’d be coming home early.”

 

“I forgot.” His voice has not changed in pitch, but I detect an undercurrent of tension.

 

“Well.” There’s a pause. “I’m real hungry already. But I suppose it can wait. It’s been one shithole of a day, I’m gonna unwind with a shower.”

  
 _“Actually – ”_ I leap to attention, looking frantically for a towel to cover myself. As if it’d make much of a difference if the mystery boyfriend walked in on me anyway.

 

“Actually, there’s a horrendous leak in the bathroom. The shower started acting up; I barely got to finish washing my hair.”

 

My heart pounds as I wait for Mr Boyfriend to swallow the lie.

 

“Dammit. You mean the same thing that happened just last month?”

 

“Mm-hmm. I think the leak may be connected to it. Why don’t you have a beer and relax, I’ll, uh…I’ll go have a look and see if it’s still bad. And I’ll call a plumber.”

 

“Fine. And you owe me a backrub, for dinner being late.”

 

Another kiss, Loki prolonging it with what sounds like tongue while I look at the window above me and wonder if I can fit through. It seems unlikely. I can’t help cursing my considerable bulk.

 

Then he’s beside me suddenly, face a portrait of panic. “Listen. I need you to sneak out of here very quietly. Go to my room, it’s just to your left. There is a window with a small balcony outside, and from there it’s just…oh, a three feet drop. Pretty safe.” He mopped his brow. “You’re lucky I don’t live on the fifth floor.”

 

“Alright.” There’s clearly no time or room to argue. But… “Loki. Why did you let me in? Why…why all of this?”

 

“I’ll explain later.” The redness is welling up in his eyes again. He pushes me on. _“Go!”_

 

With great reluctance, I obey.

 

And all the time my instincts rage against me, telling me to turn around, to follow him. To keep him _safe._

 

 

* * *

 

The next time I see him, he is a very different creature. Composed, haughty even, casually elegant even in a simple black t-shirt and faded jeans that clung well to his pert behind. These are details I can’t now help but notice. My eyes trace the contour of his cheekbone – made prominent by his hair being pulled back in a loose ponytail – and I am unable to stop them.

 

No one should look so tantalizing juggling canned tomatoes and a loaf of bread. Especially when they’re also trying to grip a stalk of coriander with their chin. I bite back a chuckle and step forward to help him just as one of the cans threaten to land on his toes.

 

Well, perhaps he’s not _that_ composed.

 

His blown-glass eyes snap at me even before he does. “What are you doing?”

 

“Proving that chivalry isn’t dead. My lady.” He rolls his eyes.

 

“I thought what happened last week would be enough of a warning.”  
  
“Warning of what?”

 

“That you should _back off.”_

 

I help him place the groceries on the cashier counter. “If your boyfriend doesn’t approve of me saving your toes from being broken by tinned tomatoes…I don’t know what to say.”

 

He bites his lip and casts a furtive look about, a tentative gesture that makes me angry suddenly. Is this mystery man controlling him, policing his every interaction? Is he simply still paranoid about our close escape?

 

“Does he…suspect anything?” I ask after a moment of silence.

 

“No. I don’t think so.” His face recedes back behind its cool demeanour. “Still, I’d prefer if you not drop by anytime soon.”

 

The curt tone hurts. But I know it’s not my place to force my presence upon him. Yet my very blood thrums with the urge to throw all caution to the wind and stay by his side. I watch him as he nonchalantly counts out bills form his wallet to pay for the purchases. The itch to shield him from some invisible threat grows stronger every second my eyes are on him, until finally I tear them away and turn around to walk off.

 

I’m almost out the shop door when I hear him.

 

“Wait.” One word, softly spoken, clear as day.

 

I turn back.

 

He rolls his eyes. Nods at his armful of groceries. “You could…help me carry these.”

 

~

 

I end up doing a lot more than some heavy lifting. Our lips seem to find each other without any apparent effort on our part. His breaths are short and high and hungry on my mouth, and incredibly arousing. I dig my fingers into his hips hard enough that some small part of my mind worries about bruises. It doesn’t seem to worry him; he urges me on, pushing himself into me.

 

Somehow or other we find ourselves in my apartment. I hold him tight and proceed to plant a row of sloppy kisses on his neck. His head falls back. Slim strong fingers hang on to my shoulders.

 

The sight of his beauty, his vulnerability, takes my breath away. I want him in my arms – I want to hold all of him, feel every curve and angle melting into me like that first time we fucked. And, miracle of miracles, he lets me.

 

“Take off your clothes,” I gasp. He wastes no time in obeying.

 

When he is naked, I claim his body with my hands, running them up and down like a shameless explorer and revelling how wonderful he feels against my own still-clothed body. “Baby,” I groan into his ear. It’s the first time I’ve called him that. He seems to like it. I lead him to my sagging sofa and lay him over an armrest, spreading his legs a little. He looks such an inviting sight, puckered little hole exposed for the taking, that I could almost come just like that – in thick hot streaks all over his back. It takes restraint not to stroke my aching cock.

 

He starts panting in anticipation, thinking I’m going to fuck him. Instead, I slap one of his ass cheeks. The sharp thwack makes him jump as much as the pain.

 

“Why, you – ”

 

His hissing is cut off by another smack. By the fifth blow, he starts to spill soft moans that urge me on. I spank him until the cream-coloured skin is pink and warm. Saliva from his gaping mouth dampen the cushion; I continue hitting him, just hard enough to make it sting, and stop only when he is trembling and the moans have turned to dry sobs.

 

I stroke his back tenderly, once. He arches into the touch like a wild hungry creature.

 

“Stay there,” I tell him and go to the kitchen to fetch some oil. Olive oil, I think, should do nicely. The bottle is down to its last quarter; I make a mental note to get some more.

 

When I return to his side, I realise the sobbing has not stopped. And to my alarm, there are tears, though he tries to blink them back.

 

“Oh, baby…shhh, now, _shhh._ I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought you liked it.”

 

He tries to say something. But all that comes out are half-formed words I can’t make out. Feeling bad, I proceed to rub the oil into his sore backside and thighs. “Does it sting that bad?”

 

Several deep breaths pass before he manages to speak. “Not at all. I’ve had much worse.”

 

My hand freezes mid-circle. “What do you mean, much _worse?”_

 

I feel his muscles tensing.

 

“I – nothing. I mean, I’m not new to such things.”

 

“Does he hurt you – _really_ hurt you?”

 

He doesn’t reply. I repeat the question.

 

Again, he keeps silent. I wonder if I should give him a few minutes alone, to let him calm down until he’s comfortable enough to talk. But he looks so…lonely, lost in some dimension inside his head as he tries to hide his face and visibly shrinks away from me. I can’t help myself. Lifting him into a sitting position, I hold him close (despite his resistance) and rub his back until he’s relaxed, limp against my chest like a large rag doll.

 

The afternoon sun has faded into evening. The humid days are getting cool as the season shifts. I take off my shirt to wrap it around his shoulders, glad that our size difference means it’s large enough to warm him.

 

He is so quiet that I think he’s fallen asleep. All thoughts of sex have fled; I’m content to sit here with my face in his hair for all eternity. Then he stirs ever so slightly, and murmurs something faintly.

 

It sounds vaguely like _“keep me safe”._

 

“Keep you safe from what?” I dread the answer. But he looks up at me with drowsy eyes and says “What are you talking about?”

 

“You – you said…”

 

“I said nothing.” He tucks his head back in its snug position beneath my chin. But despite his dismissive tone, I can’t brush off what I think I heard.

 

Not knowing what to do next, I stretch out for the remote and turn on my ancient TV. I surf the channels without really seeing anything. When his breathing becomes slow and even on my chest, I shut off the tube and carry him like a child to the bedroom. He doesn’t wake at all. From his utterly calm, unmoving features, it would seem he had not slept for a week.

 

I smooth out his limbs. Skim the smooth lines of his body with my lips, kissing his calves, then his feet, almost reverently. He responds with a lazy sigh as I tuck the blanket around him.

 

 _I’ll keep you safe,_ I want to say. _That’s a promise._

 

But I never do say it. And perhaps that was a mistake.


End file.
